Don’t Tell Me What to Do

My parents did their best. They really did! But for the life of me, I cannot get on board with being told what to do. Emphasis on the word told. I suspect that my resistance to following directions originates in the schoolyard.

More specifically- recess.

If you experienced junior high, you may concur that those brief increments of freedom could take a ruthless turn quick, fast, & in a hurry.

*side note: if you did NOT experience junior high:

A) what planet are you from?

2) do you have a time machine?

Lastly) can i borrow your time machine, return to your planet in the year 2010, and grow up among your species?

if so, we need to talk. design@graes.space

I understand that the *cling-clang* of the recess bell was supposed to be a joyous noise but to me it meant one thing and one thing only. PANIC!

Outside that ungodly heavy steel door, the one that took 8 children’s bodyweight to open, awaited a series of games facilitated by the most popular boy in class. If you are between the ages of 18-25 that boy was probably wearing Nike Elite socks. Anyway, my introversion would crank up to 100 while, with desperate eyes, I scanned the premises for a location of refuge.

Lord of The Flies vibes, anyone !?

Silly, Gracen. She knew that her volenteertold participation would be demanded soon enough. The thing with being ‘told’ is that you have no say in the matter. Rarely is your wellbeing considered in the decision making process. For an accident prone, artsy, awkward human, this was a recipe for disaster. Three concussions, two surgeries, and some staples & stitches latter, here we are. Still haunted by memories of recess and those Nike socks telling us to:

Just Do It.